Recover
by mklnay
Summary: 15th of August 1945. Victory over Japan Day. Singapore brings an injured Malaya the news, but Malaya discovers that he's not the only one hurt. S'pore/M'sia if you squint. WARNING: Brief mentions of rape.


**Recover  
**By Mklnay

**Warning:** Brief mentions of rape.

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_August 15__th__ 1945_

The war had ended. Japan had surrendered. His people were free.

News had reached Malaya only just now, in the form of a battered, ragged Singapore who now slumped exhaustedly in the other rattan chair. The island nation had been the one to receive the message sent from the English command centre, reported by a familiar, gruff voice belonging to a soldier named Arthur Kirkland. He had come to Malaya to tell him the good news, to tell him that they were free.

Japan was gone. The war was over. Somehow, the words rang hollow.

Malaya could only stare with sad, sad eyes at the youth whose head was still swathed in bandages, whose uniform shirt, he knew, covered livid tears in flesh that he would allow no one else to see. Sarimban. Bukit Timah. The British Military Hospital. He could only look on at the almost mad, desperate glint in those dark eyes, take in the bent, much-repaired frame of his spectacles. He let his eyes trace over a blackened eye and a cut, puffy lower lip. And Malaya could only wonder how they would recover from it all.

The peninsular nation knew that he had fared no better in this war. This horrible, bloody war; the worst the world had ever seen in this age of guns and atomic bombs. He could only clench his fists in the thin cotton sheets as he stared past Singapore's haunted gaze at the little medical tent he had been put in temporarily. No, he had fared no better. Perhaps not worse, but certainly no better.

His back was a mess. Malaya lay on his stomach, cheek pressed against his forearm, facing Singapore. He had almost lost count of the many battles that had been branded into his skin; Kuala Lumpur, Muar, the absolute bloodbath that had been Slim River. All of those and more, all of them wounds that would scar horrifically when this was over and done.

But nothing, nothing, could compare to the lost innocence.

Malaya was not stupid. He knew what happened when one country conquered another. The holding cell, the mental torment and the physical and emotional hurt that would follow. He was not ignorant of it, because he had endured it before, when the Sultans of long ago had fought one another. In other words, Japan had not been his first.

But Singapore.

"Singapura…"

"He's done, Malaya. Done. America dropped his atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and now the bastard's _suffering_ and he's surrendered and-"

"Singapura, stop." Malaya could not take this. His face twisted in sympathy and grief as he reached out one bandaged hand- Kota Bharu, where Japan had first landed his strange ships- to gently pry open the white-knuckled fists clenched in Singapore's lap. He was not prepared to have them be wrenched out of his reach.

Singapore's face was contorted with furious, despairing rage. "Don't pity me, damn you! Aren't you listening to me at all?" He hissed, mindful even in anger of the injured soldiers around him.

The older nation could only bite his lip. Before this whole ordeal he might have come back with a witty remark. But now, this person before him was not the Singapore of that time. This man, this _boy_ was broken, bleeding from a wound that was not on his body but on his soul.

And Malaya could do _nothing_ for him.

"Dammit Malaya, what's wrong with you? The bastard got what he deserved, and he can't- he can't-" Singapore blundered on, his usually calm demeanour shot to pieces, his eyes begging for someone to share this with. Someone that felt the same way.

Malaya couldn't oblige him. His words ripped away the blind Singapore had drawn around himself, harsh in their simplicity and heavy in the weight of their understanding.

"He can't hurt you again."

Silence. Singapore went very still. Malaya could not, would not regret his words. He would not allow Singapore, his friend despite all their bickering, to hide from this. The only way to get better was to confront it.

And then the shorter nation erupted into movement, standing up so fast that the chair overturned behind him with a crash. Malaya, having expected something almost like this, lunged forward to grab Singapore's wrist before the other nation could run.

Gasp. Pain. Crimson soaking through white. Malaya ignored the pain of reopened wounds to tighten his hold on his friend.

Slowly, gently, he tugged Singapore back to his bedside, though the younger nation would no longer look at him. If Malaya hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have noticed the fine trembling of Singapore's narrow shoulders. His heart gave a terrible squeeze at the sight of the proud island nation, frightened and ashamed.

"He can't hurt you again, Singapura," he repeated, his voice soft enough that only the one to whom it was directed could hear him. "You don't have to be afraid. I won't let him hurt you."

Again, there was a long silence, but this one at least was not punctured by Singapore trying to escape his friend's grasp. Seconds ticked by, and then slowly, hesitantly, Singapore reached for the chair, righted it and sat back down. He still wasn't looking at the older nation; his head angled downwards so that all Malaya could see was black bangs and the bottom edge of his glasses. But he was still here. That was important.

Singapore's voice was remarkably controlled, though it still shook ever so slightly. "_Bodoh._ You think anyone would be afraid of you while you're hurt like that?"

Malaya grinned. "Nah, you haven't seen me when I really get started! They call me _Sang Harimau_ on the battlefield, I'm so fierce!"

For a moment, he thought his feeble joke had gone flat, but then Singapore shot him a wry glance, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. The relief that flashed through Malaya was so strong that he smiled back, squeezing the wrist he still held.

Singapore made no move to reclaim it.

Malaya made no move to release it.

The youth's eyes were still wrong, like something behind his irises had fractured and gone to pieces. He still looked like he was a dead man walking, with his pallid face and too-thin frame. But he was on his way to getting better, to facing the morass of horror this war had become to them all. Soon enough, they would be just bad memories that he would be able to look at without flinching, as his people and Malaya's and the worlds' moved on with their lives.

So if Malaya's wounds were bleeding again and Singapore made no comment that was okay.

Because Malaya purposely didn't see the wet droplets splashing onto his sheets either.

They would recover from this. He was sure of it.

_Fin_

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Author's notes:** So. A bit of an angsty piece from me. Yes, I like this pairing. And I like history. So historical angst/hurt/comfort is what you get.

Takes place after the Japanese occupation of Malaya and Singapore. 15th of August is V-J Day, or 'Victory over Japan Day'. Sang Harimau means 'the Tiger'. Bodoh means 'stupid'.

THIS IS TOTALLY FOR BANANANUTCRUNCH WHO'S BEEN FUELING MY MALAYSIA/SINGAPORE CRAZE. ;D

Cheers~


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